A Still, Small Voice
by owlcroft
Summary: A different view of the "You Don't Hear the One that Gets You" aftermath. McCormick has more to deal with than a gunshot wound.


An Alternate Universe Postscript to "You Don't Hear the One That Gets You", originally published in the last STAR for Brian 'zine.

A STILL, SMALL VOICE

by

Owlcroft

Judge Hardcastle glanced at McCormick toying with his dinner again and decided to try a new tactic. "You want me to cut that up for ya?" he asked caustically.

"Huh?" McCormick looked up quizzically from his meatloaf and shook his head slightly as though to clear his mind. "What'd you say?"

"I _said_ 'Do ya want me to cut that _up _for ya'." The judge put down his own fork and sighed. "Look, you said your shoulder's doing okay. You're taking the pills and it's getting better, right?" At Mark's nod, he went on. "Then you gotta be moping around just because of all the stuff that happened, and it's time you snapped out of it."

Mark gave up pretending to eat and leaned back, carefully, in his chair. "Judge, I'll be fine, honest. I'm just . . . a little . . ."

"You're a little dopey, if ya ask me. Look," Hardcastle held up a finger. "You won that race fair and square. You're the Arizona Modifieds champ, okay? Next," he extended a second finger, "none of what happened was your fault. Not the robbery, not getting shot, not the shootout, none of it."

McCormick shrugged, winced, then nodded reluctantly.

The judge held up a third finger. "And the money getting burned _sure _wasn't your fault, and you ended up with close to $12,000 with the Treasury Department's reimbursement and what they found in Melissa's suitcase."

"More like $8,000 after paying taxes on the whole twenty-five grand," said Mark morosely.

"I told you I got somebody working on that." Hardcastle picked up his fork again and prodded his meatloaf tentatively. "Even if he can't do anything, you still got $8,000 by winning that race and you oughtta quit slouching around acting like--"

"Like people died, Judge? How'm I supposed to just ignore that? They left Arvin Lee to rot in a barn, they robbed banks, they didn't care _what _happened to anybody else." Mark brooded for a moment, then added, "And you remember how that tramp Melissa came onto me right in front of Arvin Lee. She just wanted to see somebody get beat up or shot because of her. She's . . . not _normal_. And she stole from me and what she took, I can never get back." He threw his paper napkin on his plate and stood, slowly, lifting the plate from the table. "I'm done. You want some coffee or anything, I'll get it."

"Hang on a minute." Hardcastle waved him back down into his chair. "She took something from you besides your car and your money and maybe, for a while, your health, huh? What? Like your trust in your fellow man or something? Your belief in the goodness of humanity?"

Mark made a face and shook his head again. He pushed his water glass around in circles and then took a small sip before saying, "It's more like she took my, I dunno, my belief in myself, I guess. I mean, I was really starting to believe I could do it, could get back into racing and be a success. You know? That I could _do _what I'd been trained to do, what I'd always _wanted _to do." He stopped abruptly, then added, "But she proved that I was right in the first place. No matter what I do, how hard I try, I'm gonna fail in the end. Even when I do something _right_, it turns out wrong. I'm a loser, Judge, and you may as well admit it now. It's okay. I've pretty much accepted it."

Hardcastle was speechless. He opened his mouth, and found nothing to say but "Are you _nuts_?" which didn't seem to go over real well.

"I really don't want to talk about this any more," said McCormick abruptly. He stood again and picked up his plate. "Coffee'll be ready in five minutes."

He walked carefully across the patio and up the steps to the kitchen, cradling the plate in his left arm while opening the door with his right.

Left alone at the table, the judge leaned his chin on his hand and stared off toward the ocean. _A loser, huh? How do I answer __**that**__? If I yell at him, he'll just clam up. If I go slow-pitch, he'll see right through it. Ah, he's just upset. He'll snap out of it. _He sighed and gathered up knife and fork and napkins, piled them on his own plate and followed McCormick into the kitchen.

ooooo

Hardcastle thumbed quickly through the entertainment section of the paper, stopping at the television listings. His eyes scanned down the page and lit up at one offering. The noise of the dishwasher came down the hall, and he shoved the paper aside just as McCormick trod gloomily into the den and lowered himself onto the couch.

"It's 'Hondo' tonight, isn't it?" Mark asked in a tired tone.

"Uh, yeah, well, we've seen that a coupla times, ya know--"

"A _couple_?" Mark stared at the judge in disbelief. "I stopped counting at twenty-seven!"

Hardcastle swiped a hand across his face to hide a grin. "Okay, a _few_. Anyway, I though maybe we'd watch something else tonight. If that's okay?" he added hastily.

McCormick leaned back and settled into the cushions. "Sure, I don't care. What is it?"

"'Monkey Business'. The Marx Brothers. You ever seen it?"

Mark thought for a moment. "Yeah. The stowaways on the boat, right? Then they get involved with gangsters?"

"Yep. That's the one."

"Sure, that's fine with me. It's a change from seeing John Wayne chase down the bad guys." McCormick rested his head on the back of the couch. "I'd much rather see Groucho nail a gangster than the Duke take down another gunslinger."

"We got a half-hour before it starts. You gonna want popcorn?" The judge fussed with some papers on his desk, arranging them in neat piles.

McCormick stared at him in suspicion. "Who are you and what have you done with Hardcastle?" he demanded.

"Hey, come on. I can do the popcorn once in a while without you getting all bent outta shape," blustered the judge. He scratched the side of his neck and sniffed deprecatingly. "You'd think I never did anything nice for ya, the way you talk."

Mark stared at him some more, stonily.

"_Wha_-at?"

"You're being _nice _to me," said McCormick flatly. "Cut it out."

"I am _not _being nice to you!" Hardcastle thought about that statement for a moment, then shook his head. "Anybody else would think we're goofy, arguing about something like that."

Mark scrubbed his face with his hands, then threw them out in surrender. "Yeah, you're right. Go ahead, _be _nice to me, you big bully."

The judge smiled at that, too, but quickly wiped it away, passing his hand roughly over his chin. "So, listen." He leaned forward in the armchair and fixed Mark with an earnest gaze. "I know you don't wanna talk about what happened yet, but maybe we _could _talk about your plans for the money. You said something about fixing up the Coyote and getting back into racing and I think that was a good idea."

"You do not," said a despondent McCormick. "All you ever say about racing is it's just turning left until you hit a wall."

"No, I mean it," insisted Hardcastle. "You got a skill and a car, and you know the right people to get back into it. You just won a race, for crying out loud! Forget all the stuff that happened later." He waved a hand emphatically. "Remember when you got back to the winner's circle and that pretty girl ran up and everybody was cheering for ya? You proved you still got it, you can still do that. You won! And you can do it again."

McCormick sat without moving, staring at the coffee table for a moment. Then, he stirred slightly and sighed. "Judge, look. I know what you're saying and I appreciate it--"

"Don't answer me now." Hardcastle stood up and looked down on him with a serious expression. "We won't talk about it again until you feel like it, but I just want you to think about it for a while, okay?" He turned and headed up the steps to the hall, but tossed over his shoulder, "I'll start the popcorn now. And hey!" He wheeled and jabbed a finger at Mark accusingly. "Don't you ever call yourself a loser again, you hear? I don't hang around with losers." He glared for a micro-second, then went out into the hall and stomped toward the kitchen, leaving McCormick agape on the couch.

ooooo

Conversation was almost non-existent after lunch the next day. McCormick had just finished unloading the dishwasher and had joined the judge on the patio to go over a list of items needed from the hardware store when the sound of a car door slamming alerted them to the arrival of company.

Frank Harper appeared in the stone archway and waved a hand. "Hey, guys!" he called cheerfully. He plopped a manila envelope onto the glass-topped table and beamed at McCormick. "I gotta thank you again, Mark. That was _really_ something, and you shouldn'ta done it. But I know you said 'no more thank-yous', so I won't." He ignored Mark's frantically waggling eyebrows and grimaces and turned to the judge. "He said he didn't want anybody to know, but I know that doesn't include _you_. You probably knew about it all along, didn'tcha? I bet you even told him when our anniversary was."

Hardcastle thought quickly, shrugged and casually waved a hand. "Well, I usually know what's going on, ya know."

McCormick gave up, slouched deeper into his chair, and shaded his eyes with his hand.

Harper dropped into the chair beside him and gave him a pat on the uninjured shoulder. "The limo was just too much. All our neighbors were spying at us, trying to figure out what was going on." He mimed peeking behind a curtain. "And Claudia got to wear that dress she bought for a wedding six years ago. Still fits her, too," he said proudly.

"I didn't know about the limo," the judge offered slyly.

"Oh, yeah, took us right to Chez Petite and waited the whole time to take us home again." Frank smiled reminiscently. "I swear it's the best anniversary present we've ever had. And the flowers on the table, with the card. Claudia says to tell you," he turned to face the disconcerted McCormick, "you've been hanging around with me too much if you know carnations are her favorite."

The judge held a hand in front of his mouth, pretending to cough slightly. "Yeah, even _I _didn't know that."

"Frank, I was just gonna make some coffee." Mark stood suddenly. "You want some?"

"Sure, that'd be great. Milt, I got an idea about this Parker guy." Harper opened the envelope and pulled out an aged charge sheet as McCormick headed up the kitchen steps.

Hardcastle held up a palm. "Frank, I wanta get something clear here. McCormick set you two up with a limo and dinner at Chez Petite for your anniversary?"

"Yeah, you knew that, right?" Frank looked suddenly wary. "I mean, you were in on it, weren't you?"

"Um," the judge pulled at his lower lip. "Well, actually, no."

Frank's jaw dropped, then he ran a hand over his thinning hair. "Uh-oh. Just call me Big-Mouth, huh?"

"Ah, he won't mind." Hardcastle patted the air. "He'da told me anyway, probably just hadn't gotten around to it."

"Hmm." Harper rubbed his jaw, considering. "Yeah, I guess. He did say it was from his race winnings, so I figured since you were along on the trip, you'd've known what his plans were." He gazed at the kitchen window. "Hope it's okay." He leaned forward. "We really did try to talk him out of it, you know. But he insisted."

"Nah, it was a great idea. And the kid likes doing stuff for people, you know that." The judge also looked kitchenward. "He likes you, Frank. I don't know why," he added to a snort from Harper. "But we better not talk about it anymore so he won't feel uncomfortable."

ooooo

The casserole for dinner that night was in the oven with the potatoes baking right alongside. McCormick was curled up on the couch with a three-inch-thick book when the judge sat down at his desk to pay the monthly bills. "Whatcha reading?" he asked.

Without raising his head, McCormick answered, "A book."

"No, really?" said Hardcastle sarcastically. He wrote for a minute, tore off a check and inserted in into an envelope. "That was a nice thing you did," he gestured vaguely toward Los Angeles, "you know, for Frank and Claudia."

"Mmm," was the only reply.

A check to P.G.& E. was completed, then a check to Coastline Landscapers. The judge sealed both envelopes and tried again. "Come on, what book is it?"

Mark said, again without looking up, "It's some kinda clinical psychiatric approach to jurisprudence. I had the radio on while I was out and I heard a guy talking about it, so I got it from the library."

The judge grunted skeptically and laid down his pen. "Yeah, probably by somebody named I.M.N. Expert."

Mark snorted in appreciation, but kept reading.

"I think I tried to read a book like that once," mused Hardcastle. "They got some interesting ideas, but you hafta wade hip-deep through medical/technical lingo to get to 'em." He picked up the bill from the pool service.

McCormick closed the book on a finger and bit his lip. "Judge," he finally asked, "do you think there's such a thing as evil?" At Hardcastle's puzzled look, he added, "I mean, real _evil_, as a . . . a . . . _phenomenon_. Something that exists on its own." He shook his head in frustration. "You know what I mean."

Hardcastle pursed his lips, then made a face. "Yeah, I know whatcha mean. But whether I believe in it or not . . . hmm." He leaned back in his chair and considered. "I sure saw a lot of people in my court that I thought did evil stuff, but maybe you're asking if I believe in the Devil, as something that actually exists. Well, you got that book there and it's gotta have something about psychopaths in it. You got to that part yet?"

"Yeah. It says psychopaths are people who don't have any empathy or feelings for anyone else. They use people and don't have any conscience." Mark sighed. "I guess Melissa is a psychopath, huh?"

"Probably. I'm not a psychiatrist." The judge thought for a minute. "My grandmother used to say people could do wicked things, but that didn't mean they were wicked themselves. They'd just been tempted." He scratched his head. "She was an old-time Baptist, so she mighta meant tempted by the Devil, or by their own human weakness. I dunno." He brooded for another moment, then added inconsequentially, "Nancy was an Episcopalian." He grunted. "Hey, there's your answer. You oughtta talk to Father Atia about it. He'd not only know what the official Catholic line is, he could probably help you out with what most folks really believe."

Mark nodded slightly and re-opened the book. Staring down at the pages, he said, "I knew a guy in prison who was probably a psychopath. He'd look right through you, just like you weren't even there. Old Jokemeister McCormick managed to avoid any trouble with him, but I still stayed away from him whenever I could."

"I dunno," repeated the judge. "Books like that say it's a kink in the brain somewhere. Some kinda chemical imbalance or circuits not clicking the way they should. Maybe it is. Maybe someday there'll be a pill they give to people that sorts 'em all out." He shrugged. "I guess it doesn't really matter what causes it. We gotta deal with 'em no matter if they're sick or evil or both."

McCormick nodded absently and continued reading.

ooooo

The next morning was hazy but bright, with just enough ocean breeze to keep the air relatively clear. The judge found the kitchen empty, started up the coffee-maker, then noticed a murmuring voice from the patio area. He stuck his head out the back door to see McCormick carefully extending the skimmer across the surface of the pool, cajoling and imploring.

"Come on, come on, little guy. Grab hold."

Hardcastle quietly closed the door behind him and trod down the steps to the patio.

"That's it, come on. You can do it." McCormick was down on one knee now, with the skimmer fully extended toward a sodden little mass floating on the surface of the water. "Atta boy, come on."

The judge folded his arms across his chest and watched as the tiny mouse latched onto the skimmer with his front claws, then clambered aboard. Mark carefully drew the skimmer back to the side of the pool and lifted it, dripping, onto the coping.

"You're okay, just take it easy," Mark told the trembling mouse gently. "Take your time, get your breath back."

Hardcastle continued to watch in silence.

After a minute or so, the mouse seemed to gather itself, then suddenly darted to the side and off into the grass. McCormick stood, leaned the skimmer against a poolside chair and glared at the judge.

"That's it! I'm buying a pool cover!" he stated defiantly. He crossed his own arms and the two men stared at each other over the water, like odd mirror images.

"Okay," shrugged the judge. "You 'bout ready for coffee?"

"I am _tired_ of things drowning in your damn pool and you being too cheap to --" McCormick broke off suddenly. "What?"

Hardcastle turned back toward the house and motioned for Mark to follow him into the kitchen. Once there, he poured coffee and offered a mug to a still-bemused McCormick. "You can buy a pool cover if you want. Probably shoulda had one before this."

Mark drank coffee and brooded. Finally, he muttered, "It's just that there's something in there almost every morning this time of year. Mice, ground squirrels, butterflies. I hate it, you know."

"I know."

A few minutes were spent in sipping coffee, then McCormick asked, "So, it's okay with you?"

"Sure. If that's what you want to spend your money on, that's fine." The judge reached around for the coffee pot and poured himself a re-fill. He gestured with it to Mark, who wordlessly held out his cup. "You want eggs this morning or cereal?"

Mark leaned against the counter, cradling his cup in his hands, staring down at it. "Cereal's fine. Not real hungry this morning."

Hardcastle nodded. "Okay." He paused fractionally, then continued, "It's just a mouse . . . or a gopher . . . but it seems worse somehow 'cause they're . . . I dunno, helpless?"

"Innocent," said Mark. "They're only in there because they were thirsty, or . . . because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time."

The judge nodded. "Yeah. But there's only so much you can hold yourself responsible for, you do realize that? I mean, it's not your fault they're in the pool."

"Yes, it is. If we'd had a cover over it, they wouldn't be drowning, so it is my responsibility."

Another shrug from the judge. "Okay, that's a valid point of view. But, it's _my _responsibility, too, 'cause it's _my _pool and _I _never bought a cover, either. So, we'll get a cover today."

"I'm paying. It's my decision and I'll be responsible for making sure it's on every night." McCormick sipped a little more coffee. He held up a hand as the judge started to say something else. "And don't give me all that stuff about how that's life and taking the bitter with the sweet and rolling with the punches, okay?"

"I wasn't gonna," said the judge mildly. "I was just gonna say it's a good idea." He set his cup on the counter and turned toward the refrigerator. "I will say this, though: we'll do what we can, and that's all we can do."

Mark took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Another life lesson from Yogi Hardcastle?"

"Maybe. Hey, I'm gonna have French toast. You sure you don't want some?"

McCormick bit his lip for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah, that sounds good."

ooooo

"Hey, where ya been?" Hardcastle peeked around the kitchen door at McCormick. "You were supposed to be back half an hour ago."

Mark tossed his jacket onto the hall chair and ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I know. Sorry about that. Some guy at the auto parts store couldn't make up his mind about what brand of spark plug to buy, then the bank was having some kinda audit and all the tellers were busy. Did I miss lunch?" He pushed through the swinging door and past the judge.

"Nah, it's only beanie weenies anyway. You start it heating up and I'll get the bowls and stuff." Hardcastle took a couple of spoons from a drawer, then spoke over his shoulder. "Oh, you got a phone call from Father Atia."

McCormick froze momentarily, then reached for the burner control and asked calmly, "He leave a message?"

"Matter of fact he did. Said it was all taken care of." The judge reached into the fridge for the carton of milk. "Said you'd know what that meant." He poured milk into the two glasses standing ready on the counter. "Don't suppose you'd like to fill me in," he said pleasantly.

"Oh, why not?" Mark muttered. He gave a stir to the pot on the stove, then turned to face the judge. "I had masses said for Arvin Lee Potter and Billy Blackstone," he stated defiantly.

The judge sipped at his milk. "Oh." He pulled a chair out from under the small kitchen table and dropped into it. "Okay."

Mark peered at him, squinting suspiciously. "'Oh, okay'? That's it?"

"Sure, why not? Makes sense, especially if you're Catholic." The judge handed him a glass. "Hey, don't burn that stuff."

McCormick turned back to the stove and stirred vigorously. "Well, I am and I did. I had to call Arizona to get Arvin Lee's last name. That's kind of sad, isn't it? They had to look it up on the M.E.'s report. Everybody just knew him as Arvin Lee." He tasted a spoonful of beanie weenie, decided lunch was ready, and began to ladle it out. "I also had one said for 'those unknown who have died by violence'. I figured there's no telling how many victims Melissa had."

"Hmmph," Hardcastle accepted his bowl and reached for a paper napkin. "That's true enough."

Both men ate for a few minutes, then the judge lifted his head suddenly. "Hey, you're not spending all that money on masses, are ya?" He noticed McCormick's lowered eyebrows and hastened to add, "Not that you couldn't if you wanted to. I just mean you oughtta be spending some of it on yourself." He finished his milk and dabbed at his lips with the napkin. "The anniversary dinner for Frank and Claudia was real nice, and the masses are okay, I guess--"

"You _guess_?"

"Yeah, okay, it was a good thing. But you're not using your prize money for _yourself_." The judge leaned back in his chair a bit. "You oughtta be buying yourself a new stereo or something. Maybe some new clothes."

"Oh, I can take a hint, Hardcase. You want to know what I'm getting for _you_, don't you?" Mark pushed back from the table and grinned. "Well, I've got something special in mind, but it's gonna take a couple of years. You just have to wait."

"A coupla _years_?" The judge stood up and took his bowl and glass to the sink. "Look, you don't have to get me anything anyway, but if you're planning on putting in that berry patch I was talking about, that was kinda just a joke."

McCormick put his own bowl and glass in the sink and gently pushed the judge toward the swinging door. "Come on. I got us both something. They're out in the hall." He pointed at the hall table, which held a small white paper bag. "Got 'em on sale at a store in the shopping center today."

Hardcastle picked up the bag and peered inside. "What the . . .?" He reached in and took out two tiny tissue-wrapper parcels.

"Go on, open them," Mark urged. "I bet even you can tell who gets which one. But be careful; they're breakable."

The judge gingerly unwrapped the first item to see a Christmas ornament in the shape of a gavel. The next was revealed to be a wee race car ornament. Each was exquisite in detail, with highlights picked out in gilt.

"It was a clearance sale of Christmas stuff. Pretty neat, huh?" Mark reached to take the tiny race car. "You'll just have to wait a while for the real present, though."

"Aw, come on. This is present enough." Hardcastle held up the gavel to admire it. "_Real_ nice. And your little car's pretty nice, too."

"Yep. They stand for something, too. Yours is for handing down the law to the bad guys." Holding up his tiny race car, McCormick smiled. "But, mine? It means I'm not giving up yet."

_finis_


End file.
